We're Not Perfect, But Our Women Are

Amazingly enough, my very patient and very understanding wife does not have the same enthusiasm for sports that I do. So, last night, when the Braves regained the lead over the Cubs in the seventh evening and I jumped up off the couch, she was not amused. I pumped my fist in the air as Kelly Johnson singled to right, waking her up and forcing a scowl to cross her face. In case you’re wondering, the scowl was for me; I must also add that the look I received from my dog was not much better. But, no matter, the Braves had fought back from a one-run deficit to take a two-run lead into the eighth inning. It was a lead they would not relinquish and they eventually won the game 8-6.

For me, it was one of the best and most exciting baseball games I have seen this year. For my wife, it was another in a long line of sleep interruptions perpetrated by yours truly in the name of "supporting the team." Bless her heart, she just doesn’t understand. And, honestly, I don’t expect her to. But to her credit she has tried to understand. Since marrying me, she has found herself in this bizarre world where her husband suddenly yells, from seemingly out of nowhere, at inanimate objects.

Case in point: the other night, we were driving to a friend’s house and the Braves game was on the radio. With two outs and a runner on base, the dangerous Andruw Jones strolled to the plate. I muttered under my breath, "Come on, Andruw." At least I thought I said it quietly. As it out, turns I didn’t. I said it out loud and she heard me.

"Brad, why are you talking to the radio?" she facetiously inquired. "He can’t hear you."

Before I continue, there a couple of disclaimers I need to make here. First, that wasn’t the first time something like that has happened. On several other occasions, this same scenario has played out and I usually just shrug my shoulders and move on, pretending that it’s really no big deal that a grown man talks to his radio. Second, I am not the smartest guy on the planet, but I do know that Andruw Jones could not hear me. I am well aware of the fact that I do not have an instant communication feed directly to the Braves dugout and, even if I did, I know that Jones would not necessarily seek me out for a motivational diatribe. All of this really goes without saying, but I wanted to make the point that I have not completely lost my mind.

Back to the story: Andruw promptly stuck out, ending the inning and igniting a not-so-pertinent discussion that went absolutely nowhere. I pointed out to her what I previously noted to you, that I realize these guys cannot hear me. But I get lost in the game, in the moment, in the situation and cheering out loud makes me feel like I’m right there. I care about what happens; I am emotionally involved in the game. So, of course I find it necessary to talk to the radio, television or whatever else is close by. You can easily see how this progression of caring about something to carrying on incoherent conversations with a television or radio occurs… can’t you?

Needless to say, my poor attempt at an explanation did no good. In fact, it may have made matters worse. Not only was I someone who talked to inanimate objects and expected results because of it, but I had also somehow rationalized the behavior in my mind. I think I would have been better off staying consistent with my previous reactions and simply shrugged off her question to mere female foolishness. But I didn’t just shrug it off. I couldn’t. I had to offer what – in my mind at least – amounted to somewhat of a logical explanation. Again, my explanation did absolutely no good.

Trust me, there are plenty of other examples. But telling them puts me more and more at risk of being labeled a complete nut, so I will abstain. Still, I must pay tribute to my wife – and all the other wives and/or girlfriends out there who put up with guys like me. Because as strange as this type of behavior may be, it is not uncommon.

We are the guys who have conversations with our televisions and our radios. We are the guys who jump up off the couch at ten o’clock at night while our wives quietly sleep next to us. We may wake you up, but we mean you no harm. Seriously, we don’t. And that’s the truth.

My wife, in particular, puts up with quite a bit. Football in the fall and winter is followed by college basketball in the late winter and early spring, which is then followed by a summer full of baseball. She would probably say that it seems like baseball is on every night. And, as I have said before, I tend to agree with her. The baseball season should be shortened by at least 18 games (for more on that, see a previous blog of mine), which still wouldn’t provide much relief for her. So, either way you look at it, she is stuck with this seemingly endless (to her) barrage of sports as she is also stuck with me. In my defense, I would like to point out that she knew about this long before we were married. She knew very well what she was getting when she said "I do."

And I knew exactly what I was getting into as well. I’m the lucky one. Unless I’ve done something extremely foolish (like leave the toilet seat up or drink out of the milk carton), you would be hard-pressed to find me enduring anything close to what my wife endures on a regular basis. She loves to watch cooking shows. But if Martha Stewart is seconds away from putting the finishing touches on a delicious pound cake, there is no shouting, there is no fist-pumping and there is no obnoxious incoherent one-sided television conversations. My wife refrains from all of that.

So, here’s to all the wives and girlfriends who put up with guys like me. We may wake you up with our rabid enthusiasm over a seemingly insignificant win in the fourteenth game of a one-hundred and sixty-two game season, but we don’t mean anything by it. It may indeed make you feel like you’re stuck with us. But in the words of Huey Lewis, "we’re happy to be stuck with you."